I told her the whole story, then made the strongest case I could think of: “Mitch never hangs out with me when you go to work, even though you tell him he has to. And I never know when Dad will be here or not. A dog would keep me company.”
Blossom had done her part, snuggling against my mom when she sat on the edge of my bed, the khaki pants she wore for her hotel front desk job so heavily starched they barely creased. She mindlessly began to stroke Blossom’s fur, extra soft from the bath.
“Margo, you know we aren’t allowed to have pets here,” she told me gently. I remember feeling surprised by how sad she looked. “Plus,” she added, “who would take care of her during the day once you go back to school?”
I was not a kid who cried very often, but in that moment, a dam broke. I could hardly form words between my snotty, heaving sobs. I was such a pathetic mess that my mom started crying, too.
She watched me for a minute, chewing her rosy bottom lip. “All right, Margo, we don’t have to decide right now.” She wiped the tears from the underside of her chin with the back of a hand. “When your dad gets home, let’s say a friend from school had to go on a trip, and her family asked us to take care of Blossom while they’re away. I’ll explain it, and you just agree with me, okay?”
I’d never loved her more.
“Margo, are you okay?” Natalie frowns at me from her barstool.
“Yeah, fine.” I clear my throat. “I just mean that I never had a dog of my own when I was a kid. I took care of one for a while, though. For a friend.”
The bartender comes over to ask if we’d like another round. Natalie starts to order, then catches my disapproving look. She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, never mind,” she tells the bartender. “I have to get home to let the dog out.”
She’s frosty on the walk back to the apartment, so when I spy the Prius parked down a side street, I’m glad for the out. “You know what, Nat, I have a quick errand to run, and my car’s right there.” I gesture toward it. “I’ll see you later.”
There’s only one place I can think to go. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stay away forever. That house is a part of me now. And I only need to see it for a second. Just to know that it’s still as perfect as I remember.
Traffic is a mess, so the sun is nearly gone by the time I make it to Grovemont. When the house is in view, I slow to a crawl, debating whether I should risk pulling over. But the front windows are dark. They’re probably still cleaning up dinner. They’ll never notice me from all the way back there.
I park across the street, shutting the car door as softly as I can. From the sidewalk, beneath the canopy of the big maple, I can see through the window just to the left of the front door. I can make out the curve of the arched opening into the kitchen, backlit by the happy routine taking place just beyond it. A slender figure—Jack—glides past the island. A softness swells inside of me as I imagine a high chair pulled up to it, squishy little hands leaving fingerprints behind on smooth marble.
Wonder what they ate tonight. Did they use the breakfast nook or the deck table? Did they take turns sharing the highs and lows of their days? I’ve always wanted to do that with my own family. It’ll be our dinnertime ritual.
I wonder if they talked about me and Ian. Have they explained to Penny what happened with us?
A rustling overhead draws my attention upward—only a squirrel. But as I follow its dark outline around the branches, my heart nearly stops. The light in one of the windows on the second floor, Curt’s office judging by the location, has blinked on. A lone eye watching the street.
How long has it been like that?
I lower my face toward the ground and turn back to the Prius. In a few fast strides, I’m behind the wheel. When I sneak a look toward the house, the light is off again. But I have no way of knowing if someone is on the other side of the blackness.
I don’t hear the text arrive at first because the vibrating of my Sonicare fills my whole head. But once I switch it off and spit out the toothpaste, my phone dings again.
It’s Erika.
Sorry, the day got away from me. The IP address came from 20057. Georgetown.
Georgetown? I thought Georgetown’s zip code was 20007. I run a quick Google search and feel my breath catch.
“Oh my God,” I say aloud.
“What, babe?” Ian calls from the bedroom, where theSportsCentertheme is starting up.
“Nothing,” I reply. “Just a dumb email from a client.”
It’s after eleven o’clock, but I’m suddenly wide awake. Erika didn’t mean Georgetown, the neighborhood. She meant Georgetown University. The school has its own zip code.
Ellipsis must have been another faculty member. Or a student. I can work with this.
14
The Toyota Camry bumps along Georgetown’s ancient cobblestone streets, the rough ride conspiring with the faint smell of cigarettes in the backseat to raise a gurgling from my stomach.
“Here we are,” says the driver, slowing to a stop in front of an intricate wrought-iron gate, its sides swung open like outstretched arms.
